


and your heart was an open book

by blackwell



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Avengers Tower, Bisexuality, Bottom Steve, Cunnilingus, F/M, Femdom, Friends With Benefits, Light BDSM, POV Natasha Romanov, Past Rape/Non-con, Pegging, Strap-Ons, Sub Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-14
Updated: 2014-11-14
Packaged: 2018-02-25 08:50:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2615723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackwell/pseuds/blackwell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the prompt: "Natasha's done honeypot missions, she's let captors rape her and extracted vital intelligence (and vital organs) while they were gloating, maybe she's posed as a professional domme and left a target restrained in real handcuffs to be taken into custody. She's totally unemotional about it--it's part of her job, and she can take anything anyone throws at her. The downside is it's fucked up her ability to have a fulfilling sex life, since "I can take anything you throw at me" isn't exactly a gold standard for consent and mutual enjoyment, and she invariably thinks of sex in terms of calculating how to get a reaction out of someone else...</p>
<p>Then, at some point, she strikes up a FWB relationship with Steve. Who is so earnestly eager to please in bed that it forces her to think about what she wants. It turns out that while she can totally take and even enjoy all the rough superpowered fucking Steve can dish out, what she really, really likes is the luxury of telling him to be painfully gentle with her. Or lying back and giving him directions on exactly how to pleasure her. She doesn't get a lot of chances to be the one actually in control in the bedroom, so she enjoys it for all it's worth."</p>
            </blockquote>





	and your heart was an open book

**Author's Note:**

> Weird sort of rambling porn. And also feelings. Umm, enjoy?

Natasha Romanoff is a spy.

She seems to spend most of her time reminding people of that, these days: that she’s a spy first, and second, and third, and after that she’s…well, she’s whatever they want her to be.

Once, on an op, a foolish man tied her to a chair and said she was just another pretty face. He was wrong.

Natasha Romanoff is not _just another_ anything, but she would be lying if she pretended that _a pretty face_ is not among the many things she is.

It makes her job easier. Men become stupid when she presses delicate kisses to the corners of their mouths; they become stupid when they slam her back against the wall and tear off her shirt.

~

There is a man in Ukraine in the fall of 2015 who she thinks of as the Kangaroo. He’s a criminal wanted in seventeen countries, but he goes everywhere with a fanny pack bouncing up and down at the front of his belt, which she finds funny.

He’s an easy mark. Even she is a little surprised by how quickly he leans in to kiss her when she steps close to him. He doesn’t realize she’s going to kill him until she’s already slid a knife between his ribs.

~

Not all men are as easy as the Kangaroo, of course. A few of them elude her for weeks before she’s able to find and become that one thing they can’t resist. Others actually put up a fight, once they realize how critically they’ve misjudged her.

One of these is able to turn her around, slam her face-first into a wall.

He’s smarter than most. He doesn’t take his cock out.

He runs.

She catches him at the end of the hallway, launching herself forward and knocking him down to the ground.

~

On her way back to the US, she fucks a woman in Denmark, and a man in London. They both touch her face reverently, not noticing the fading cuts from being shoved into the wall. They both cry out when they come, soft little bird noises that she neither understands nor things about.

The woman goes down on her for what seems like hours, and it feels good, but it’s also boring. Her eyes skate across the whitewashed ceiling as she tries to calculate the appropriate time to leave.

The man feels his way inside her with such care that she almost snaps at him, but she doesn’t.

~

Back in the Tower, the first thing Steve says to her is, “What happened to your face?”

She hadn’t realized that the cuts weren’t healed yet.

“Nothing.”

She’s trying to escape to the elevator, but he steps into her path. “It’s not nothing. Come here, let me see.”

“It was just some guy, Steve. He shoved me into a wall. Don’t worry about it.”

“Some guy shoved you into a wall? You’re slipping.”

She laughs, but Steve’s face shifts.

“Did he…?”

Steve is still adorably uncomfortable with her job.

~

They first fall into bed together sometime in January of 2016. She doesn’t take note of the actual date; that would be sappy. Natasha Romanoff doesn’t do sappy.

She’s willing to admit, though, that Steve is different from the woman in Denmark, or the man in London.

He lets her fuck him with a strap-on—moans for it, in fact, and it’s almost enough to make her cry out herself.

Instead, she speaks his name, out loud, over the sounds of her thighs slapping against the backs of his and the fan beating in the window.

~

In early March, there comes a weekend when they have the Tower to themselves. Everyone else is away, and so Natasha sprawls out in front of the television with a massive bowl of popcorn to watch _The Wire_.

You can’t be a super-spy all the time, after all.

Between episodes, Steve comes and kneels before her and, with his head bowed, works her jeans and underwear down her legs. He sits back on his heels and buries his face between her thighs.

She feels a little sorry when her hips buck up toward him, but Steve groans.

~

That’s Friday. On Sunday, right before the others come back, she and Steve have breakfast together in the kitchen.

“Can we talk?” he asks her over a bowl of cold cereal.

“I’d rather we didn’t.”

“Indulge me.”

For some reason, that makes her listen.

“When we, ummm, ahhh…”

For someone who’s so good at sex, Steve Rogers is painfully bad at talking about it outside the bedroom.

“Fuck?” she supplies, helpfully.

“When we _fuck_ , you’re always on top. Which, don’t get me wrong, is absolutely incredible, wouldn’t change it for the world, it’s…”

“Do you have a point?”

“There’s a reason for it, isn’t there?”

~

Of course there’s a reason for it. She would tell him that right then and there, but how?

Natasha Romanoff doesn’t know how to tell Steve Rogers, of all people, that just because she _needs_ it this way doesn’t mean she doesn’t _want_ it this way, too.

The only thing she can think to do is show him, so she does. She slips into his room that night and lies down beside him on the bed.

“Don’t move.”

A hand on his shoulder is enough to roll him over, and she straddles him, and smiles.

~

It’s months before she can admit it to herself, but the truth is, she never knew what she was missing until she found it.

Steve is, well, he’s so damn biddable.

And sweet. And kind.

“Be gentle,” she tells him, and he is.

His hands on her hips, and she whispers, “No. Breasts first.”

His mouth, licking and sucking at her nipples. “A little teeth?” she asks, and he obliges.

And then his mouth is moving lower and he’s licking at her navel and he’s kissing over the patch of hair and he’s spreading her open.

She winds her fingers through his hair and cries out.

**Author's Note:**

> My [tumblr](http://blackwellwrites.tumblr.com/), if you're interested.


End file.
